By Guest Reviewer Alice
GRADE: A

Banks are great in the summertime. The bank lobby is always subzero and when you walk in it's like "Ahh, this is what money feels like." I used to bank at Washington Mutual but I dipped out in the summer of 03, because I wasn't feeling WM's tellers. They definitely weren't feeling me, so it's A-Ok with everyone that I switched to Commerce, the best bank in the Universe. My jaw dropped and my eyes popped out of my head WB-style when Inga, the banker who helped me open my account told me about the free free free gratis checking where they actually refund my money that other banks’ ATMs try to steal from me. For this and other reasons, I am constantly raving about Commerce, and whenever I encounter someone who hasn't heard about the banking utopia where my $38.92 safely lies today, I look at them as though they said they haven't heard of flour.

Which leads me to my scathing capsule review of Chase Manhattan. I tried to open an account there when I was eighteen, and they made it so difficult - even though my parents were with me! - that I was like ‘fuck it,’ and I went to Dime cause it was cuter somehow. Besides the fact that it bears the most asshole-y boys' name ever, Chase sucks for the simple reason that the free checking is not free ($6 dollas every month unless you get direct deposit, which is hard when you're an exotic dancer or you sell gyros on the street). Paying for "free checking" gets even stupider when you realize that check Granny just sent you in your Halloween care package wont go thru till --Egads!-- next week! Too bad you don't bank at Commerce. Commerce will give you the amount in FULL the next day, even on Sunday. Because Commerce is OPEN on Sundays! So don't gimme none o' that "but there are way more Chase branches than Commerces" because the Commerce banking hours will make you puke fire out your nose. Why do you care if you have to trek your lazy butt a few more blocks up if you can bank on SATURDAY?

So this is what brand (or bank) loyalty is. You, the brand, fulfill my expectations (and then some) in a consistent way, and you do it with a smile. I see that no other brand has been able to do what you do. I keep coming back, we get familiar, then friendly, and finally loyal. That is how it works. Here comes the big-payoff anecdote at the end of the review. So I'm in the Chase ATM lobby on Broadway waiting while Bradley gets some money out (he's not a Chase customer, by the way). Being in a bank reminds me of my bank so of course I begin my soliloquy on the virtues of Commerce Free Checking. A guy using the nearest ATM finishes and as he walks by he says to me "You can't come in to a bank and just start yelling about how good another bank is." No he didn't!

"Um, yeah I can cuz it's a free country?" said I. Then he said I was a "dummy" or something so of course I had to run out after him and yell GO RED SOX! I mean, this jackass was STICKING UP FOR HIS LAME BANK!! What, is there some secret blowjob service that Chase offers to premium customers? Maybe that's what they mean by their slogan "The right relationship is everything." Ew. What a tool! Anyway, Chase blows harder than any other bank. Partly because they do terrible things to developing economies, but mostly because that guy is a customer.

By the way, if you wanna be a Commercenist (commercenary?) like me, just lemme know and I'll refer you and when you get an account we'll both get ten dollars! [Editor’s note: Oh, so that’s why you’re writing this.] Whee, then we can go see Infernal Smutshine of the Plotless Grind for the like, 80th time.

By emily

GRADE: C-

I absolutely tried to think of something to write a positive review of, guys, I really did. I was going to write about such easy-to-love things as the soundtrack of Beyond the Valley of the Dolls (featuring two different versions of ‘Come with the Gentle People’!), Thin Mints, Dr. Hauschka products, et cetera. But then I realized that all I have to say about things that I love is: “I love this thing. You should too.” And really, how boring is that? That’s not what you want from the Universal Review. You’re looking for in-depth, serious critiques of things that affect your life. Or sordid details about B's dirty, dirty sexual habits. One or the other. Anyway, I am incapable of fulfilling your needs without turning the laser-sharp beam of my Hate on something. And today that something is: THE DISARONNO AD.

You have seen this ad, of course. It’s the one where a thirtyish brunette WASPy chick –poor man’s Charlotte, basically – is at a generically posh bar with three of her most ethnically diverse friends. There is an Asian guy, a black lady, and a midget in a wheelchair. Well, not really but almost. Basically it’s like one of those fake ‘candid’ shots from the Small Expensive Private College viewbook, except all growed up. Anyway, the bartender – cheesily attractive in a daytime TV way -- is taking their drink orders. Improbably, they all order Disaronno beverages: a Disaronno martini, Disaronno sour. Sharlotte orders Disaronno on the rocks. The bartender raises his eyebrows and repeats her order in a sleazy tone of voice.

This has all been fairly heinous so far, but it’s about to get much worse. The bartender tries to remove Sharlotte’s empty tumbler, but she grabs it back and shakes her head like “Oh no you don’t!” then proceeds to raise an ice cube – dripping with delicious backwash-diluted Disaronno – to her lips, whereupon she pretends that the ice cube is a giant luscious bartender dick. The bartender looks at her like he’s impressed, perhaps by her subtlety. Then for some reason she and all her friends start cracking up. Ha ha ha! Wait, WHAT?

I think I speak for everyone who has ever worked in any capacity at a restaurant or bar when I say that WOMEN WHO TRY TO GRAB BACK THE GLASS THAT YOU ARE BUSSING BECAUSE THEY WANT TO SUCK ON THE ICE ARE THE MOST ANNOYING PEOPLE IN THE WORLD. They are often the same women who hem and haw their way through their order, changing their mind a dozen times while the poor beleagured waiter has to stand there pretending to be interested. Why do some people think that their waiters, bartenders etc. are actually their friends who are hanging out with them because they're so charming and cute? I file this under “Only Child Syndrome.”

Also, what the fuck is Disaronno?

By guest reviewer Rachel

Grade: C

Okay, let me start off by saying that Rocco is pretty. I mean, pretty. Like, if he asked me to kiss and then name each of his toes I just might do it. He's that kind of pretty. This explains why all manner of women come to see him at his restaurant. [Editor's note: Rachel, are you sure you don't mean pretty fat?]

It's this kind of romantic desperation that makes the show appealing. We all might sit at home and laugh at the pathetic Blind Daters and the hopeless women from Starting Over but can you imagine making reservations months and months in advance for an overpriced, gimmicky New York restaurant JUST to catch a glimpse of the hot chef/owner and possibly be a blip on the reality show that revolves around him? Now that's pathetic.

I feel qualified to rate this new season since I saw almost every episode of the first one. It was a magical time for me... I was embarking on a short-lived venture into the service industry and I felt that the show spoke volumes. If I had really been paying attention I could have skipped the whole painful journey. Well.

Last season the gimmick was that none of the wait staff had serving experience. Not the best idea. It turns out the restaurant business is crazy enough without throwing the mentally challenged into the mix! The servers made all sorts of ridiculous mistakes for our amusement. The best example was when this Goomba-ish waiter/aspiring comedian went walking around Soho with a customer's credit card looking for the right bottle of red wine for him. He was wearing his whole uniform and hadn't told anyone where he was going. Ex-waiters are probably the only ones chuckling right now.

This season finds Rocco aspiring to C- list celebrity while one of the major investors, Jeffrey, an Elliott Gould look- and sound-alike, tries to bring order to the restaurant (which is losing money) with his team of consultants. And everyone seems to hate Rocco. Except the ladies!

A quick breakdown of what you can expect to see during an average episode of
the restaurant:

-Rocco kissing his old, skeletal Mama while she shouts, Rocco! Rocco! I think she sleeps there.
- Guys shouting "Where's Rocco?!" because their girlfriends begged to
come see him.
- Young women shouting, "Where's Rocco?" after begging their boyfriends to come see him.
-Rocco kissing middle-aged ladies and posing for pictures while calling them gorgeous and beautiful. They eat it up. Waiter, get them a mirror with their entrees!
-Middle aged ladies begging Rocco to sit at their table.
-Rocco letting middle aged ladies sit on his lap and then making jokes
about "That's just my cell phone! Har har!"
-The wait staff complaining about Rocco.
- The wait staff being snippy to each other.
- Rocco getting upset and driving away on his scooter. He doesn't like to cry on camera.

The show is pretty good filler, especially if you've ever worked at a restaurant. You can empathize with them but then laugh when they make stupid mistakes you've made a hundred times.

But the drama the producers (yes, Mark Burnett is all up in there) try to create over the control of the restaurant isn't really all that interesting. Oh my God, Rocco might be replaced? Who the hell cares (unless you're a lonely middle-aged woman in New Jersey, Long Island, or Queens)? All he does now is pop in once a night and eat spaghetti off of plates in the kitchen and then say things like, "Needs more garlic, don't you think?" If the restaurant didn't happen to have his name, not much would change. All in all, don't set TiVo for The Restaurant, but feel free to tune in when CSI is a rerun.

[Editor's note: Rachel is an illustrator in Washington, DC.]

By Emily

An evaluation of a Lifestyle Choice. By emily

GRADE: D

A: Hi, how are you?
B: Great, thanks. How are you?
A: I’m fine. Really looking forward to the weekend.
B: Ha ha ha! You’ve got that right. Thank god it’s Friday.
A: I love those shoes!
B: Thanks! They’re new.
A: Well, they look great.
B: Thanks!
A: Okay, well, have a great weekend.
B: You too! Thanks! Bye now!

Regular readers of the UR are familiar with the fact that, while I work in an office, B works in his underpants in his filthy bedroom. So the task of reviewing Small Talk – as well as the task of actually engaging in Small Talk – inevitably falls to me. Well, guess what -- I HATE THIS BULLSHIT. Please don’t be offended if you’re someone who has engaged in Small Talk with me. It isn’t your fault that our culture requires us to interact as if we’re characters in an English 101 workbook exercise. But, in the future, here are some things that we can maybe try to avoid:

1. How are you?

Why fucking bother with this pointless question? In a professional situation, no one is ever going to say anything other than “Good,” or “Fine,” or “Okay.” Of course, this will be a lie at least 85% of the time. If someone asks you how you are, it’s a handy way of being able to tell that they do not give two shits about how you are.

2. Thanks!

People say thanks when they have no idea what else to say. What are we thanking each other for, the momentary fake-ass interaction that has wasted precious, un-get-back-able minutes of our lives? Um, no thanks. Also, from now on, let’s only laugh when motivated by actual mirth. Thanks!

3. I love those shoes!

Bullshit, I do not. I just have nothing of any substance to say to you. Everyone knows that when you have nothing to say to someone but it would seem weird NOT to interact with them (in the elevator for example), you can always just compliment them on their earrings or whatever. For the record, those shoes are the same boring-ass J Crew looking black whatevers that you wear all the time, except new. Woo woo.

4. Have a great weekend!

I don’t like being commanded to have a great weekend. I will have a shitty weekend if that’s what I want to do, okay? Bye now!

By B
Grade: C

(Special note from B – 05/23/2006: It has now been more than 2 years since I wrote this review, and I’m sort of embarrassed to repost it. It’s a little overwritten, huh? I think I was having a bad day. And the E Bishop reference is quite clearly nowhere near as clever as it seemed to me at the time. Anyway, I thought about totally rewriting this post before putting it up again, or just skipping it altogether, but decided that would be dishonest. I’m all about REALNESS, ok? Represent.)

Emily and I were talking tonight of our fantasies of the olden days. Emily says that she has often dreamed of being a character in Laura Ingalls Wilder, or a bebonneted butter churning ladie, a la colonial Williamsburg. I have never been to colonial Williamsburg, have never read the Little House books, and personally think that the olden days in general seem like a terrible idea. However, I have often fantasized that there was no such thing as electricity, which is sort of along the same lines. Because it would make things much more relaxing, aside from all the plowing of the fields and soforth.

Recently I have decided that I would settle for just no internet. It is such a dark God. We would be better without it, even if we would miss the free songs. Historically, the chief wickedness of the beast was its deadly charm. The rote pornography, the hour badly spent. All that. And maybe it is just we never noticed before, but I am thinking things are getting worse; there are greater dangers revealing themselves. Not only is the internet stealing our time, it is collecting and cataloging it in glass cases.

This came to my attention just as I was starting to get (sort of) bored of the porn and et cetera. I was running out of ways to not get crap done when two things popped up that are already leading to far greater problems than idleness: FRIENDSTER and the special diaries adorably dubbed BLOGS.

It took me awhile to begin to grapple with the true evil of these phenomena. For years, I'd always ignored blogs, because they (besides this one, which isn’t even a true blog) are fucking boring. But they are getting harder to ignore. And I knew instantly that nothing good would come from FRIENDSTER.

Too much information is a dangerous thing. I am not talking about the kind of too much information where you tell your prissy coworker about this one time when you were giving a rimjob and she squeals, “OKAY, too much information!” because that is annoying and she should get over it. I am talking about the kind of too much information where no secret is unavailable and some of them are unavoidable. This goes in both directions. Emily, for instance, has just learned that it is bad to post catty gossip, criticize people and diss on their japanese girlfriends (actually, she doesn’t seem too contrite on that final count) on THE UNIVERSAL REVIEW, because people shockingly seem to read it.

And although I have assiduously avoided Katha Pollitesque WEBSTALKING, the friendster-BLOG-google hydra, combined with a level of self control that is merely healthy as opposed to unassailable, sometimes makes it impossible not to semi-accidentally come across the personal details of certain other people’s lives. I am talking about the type of personal information that one is mostly fine with as long as one gets to remain blissfully ignorant of it. You know the kind I mean. But ignorance is no longer an option. These days a few haphazard clicks reveal everything. Like: places, names and where it is they mean to travel.

Things are beginning to linger too long. Maybe they will linger forever now. How long will this post exist? Will it still be here ten years from now? A hundred? This is not natural. There are emails that I sent when I was fifteen still out there somewhere and probably all it takes to call them up is the most cursory google. I don’t like the thought of my fifteen year-old self, trapped and floating in a disorienting field of 0s and 1s. I bet he is cold and lonely. I’m sure he is tired of being fifteen. It's too late though; he is there for good. Because the internet is fucking with time. It is fucking with memory. And loss. There is one art it has not mastered.

By B

Grade: B

I wish there were more to say about the “exclusive” establishment known as the Soho House, because Emily says I have to review it or else. You may have seen it featured on the episode of Sex and the City in which Kim Catrall wears the most hideous bathing suit ever. Actually, it is a sort of funny episode, but the central premise—that Carrie and company are forced to impersonate members of the club in order to gain entrance-- is totally ridiculous. Because, let’s face it, if I can make it past the front desk, there is no way that Carrie Bradshaw would need to go to such desperate lengths. (I know this is not a review of Sex and the City, but I just want to point out that this exemplifies one of my many pet peeves about the program: in some episodes, Carrie is a full fledged C-list celebrity, with a coterie of fancy friends such as Candace Bergen, and then in the next episode she is so wretched and obscure that she is forced to sneak into the Soho House.)

Anyway, there were not really any famous people there except for Queer Eye #4 (furniture). I was glad to finally see him in person for real, because I am always falsely spotting him on the subway etc and then it turns out to be a lesbian or a Polish person. Now that I have seen the real him, I will no longer make this mistake. My host also thought that he saw Jordan Catalano, but all white people with cornrows are not necessarily him, in my opinion. If it really was JC, then he has totally gone to seed.

I am not really going to bother picking on the soho house because that was pretty much covered by the gawker like a whole year ago, and plus i had a nice time. in the end, it was sort of exactly like a hotel bar, which is actually what it technically is, i guess. that's fine with me. i've always liked hotel bars, especially the one in boston where Margaret pretended to be Lisa Rosenthal. sorry emily! i know i am disappointing here... but i'm coming up blank. i could talk about the foosball table (pretentiously fake-anglo) or the membership card (pretentiously minimalist) or the waitress (sort of a bitch) but i don't think any of those things are too newsworthy.

The cocktail menu was sufficiently girly, and featured the most overcooked descriptions that I have ever read in my life. The word 'salubrious' was, in fact, used. This attention to detail was a little wasted considering that the drink I ordered was not the drink that I actually got. That was fine, though, because I was pretty much picking at random anyway.

In general, it was a pleasant enough experience. Mostly I think that it is for grownups, because the place was totally cleared out by two o’clock in the morning. I’m hoping to be invited back when it is swimming pool season, although the pool is supposedly very small. I don’t care as long as they have 'noodles'. I love those.

By Emily
Grade: A

Sweeping pronouncements about specific ethnic groups are of course Bad, but when they’re praiseful it’s okay, right? I mean, no one would get offended if I said “Those Czechs sure are industrious,” or something. Actually a lot of people I went to college with would. Thank god(dess) they’re far away from us now in some Peace Corps encampment in Guatemala, where with any luck they will be eaten by capybaras. Anyway, it’s not racist to say that Japanese girls are pretty much the zenith of human evolution. Apologies in advance to anyone who is primed to complain that I am “exoticizing” these women in the manner of Kill Bill Volume 1 or the song “China Girl” or the guy who wrote a letter to Adrian Tomine calling Hilary Chan a “hottie tottie with a naughty karate body.” I am not like any of those things. I just want to give credit where credit is due.

I used to work at a bar (Kyle: the famous, intensely glamorous "Continental," duh) near the corner of Third Avenue and 9th street. That block of 9th street, excluding the NYU dorm, is the Japanesest place in the East Village and possibly in New York, with a fancy hair salon, a coffeeshop, an omelet counter, a sushi restaurant, and a Japanese grocery store all catering to and staffed by the most adorable girls on the planet. They would always be walking by, laughing, with some sort of mysterious bubble-tea beverage in their hands, wearing a billion crazy layers that couldn’t put an ounce onto their perfectly skinny frames. I would always be envying them and trying to think of ways to be more like them. After I realized that there is no plastic surgeon in the world corrupt enough to make someone into a Japanese lady (refraining from obvious Michael Jackson joke here), I began to seek out nonsurgical ways to emulate my new role models. For your convenience I have composed a handy list of guidelines to turning Japanese in a tasteful, respectful way:

1. LOSE AS MUCH WEIGHT AS YOU POSSIBLY CAN! It’s important to make it so that your hips are the exact same width as your shoulders, and also to ensure that there is a gap between your upper thighs. Otherwise crazy thrift-store garments will just make you look like a dumpy old lady.
2. YOUR HAIR SHOULD BE PERFECTLY STRAIGHT AND ALL ONE COLOR. However, you should probably refrain from actually attempting to have haircuts you’ve seen on Japanese ladies. The reason these women’s haircuts look so cool and awesome is because these women are naturally gorgeous and cool-looking. If you, the non-Japanese girl, try to have a long, straggly mullet, you will look like an LPGA caddie. Trust me on this one.
3. SPEND A LOT OF MONEY TO LOOK LIKE YOU SHOP EXCLUSIVELY IN THE SALVO BARGAIN BIN.
One of the secrets of phenomenal Japanese-girl style is that these ladies, from what I hear, live a totally carefree existence and are funded by their rich parents. Instead of frittering away their whopping allowances on booze, drugs, and stupid clothes like American rich kids do, they buy the weirdest clothes available from obscure yet fancy designers, like Imitation of Imitation of Imitation of Christ and Heatherette. Perhaps you should follow suit, but don’t go overboard. Unless you fulfill requirements 1 and 2, you may end up looking scary.
4. REALIZE THAT WHAT LOOKS CUTE AND FLIRTATIOUS ON THEM WILL MAKE YOU LOOK LIKE A TRUCK STOP WHORE.
This is pretty much the same thing as 3. I just wanted to be extra clear. Legwarmers over heels specifically.

Anyway these rules and many more tips are going to be elaborated by my new reality makeover show, KAWAII EYE. Don’t you think this is a good idea? Would you like to host it? Cute name (“Hushi” or “Midori”) a plus.

By B
Grade: F, unless they are very sexy, in which case D-

i'm not trying to be the thought police, but what is with gay republicans and why do they think it's okay to talk to me? sorry but unless you are alex p keaton with your little white briefs around your ankles, i am not going to indulge you in your PEGGY NOONAN obsession.

or actually maybe i will. that is the fucked up part. i think the reason i encounter so many gay republicans is because i have a perversion that makes me think they are sort of hot. sort of. because they are so deluded and stubborn and contrary. i bet the sex is so great. unfortunately, i will never know.

in the lysistrata, which i've actually never read, and don't even know how to spell (jorge, help me out here), a bunch of greek ladies-- like a whole village i guess-- go on a sex boycott and refuse to do it with the men for some reason. I can't remember what that reason is, but i think it was a good one.

of course, why ancient greek husbands would care whether their wives are putting out or not, i don't know. because aren't they just doing it with young boys anyway? Maybe that is addressed in the play. I have no idea, but either way, in the end, i'm pretty sure, the sex boycott works, and the ladies get whatever they were wanting.

when dealing with gay republicans, i think it is important to keep these courageous ancient greek ladies in mind. if everyone refuses, on principle, to get down with them, maybe GR's will change their ways. or at least maybe they will stop trying to ply us with their evil charms. i don't think i'd be able to live with myself if i accidentally did it with a Republican, and yet i am always so tempted. (i have been thinking about this issue since long before i saw the curb your enthusiasm finale.)

I realize that i'm not expressing myself well, and I understand that i'm being a knee-jerk, dogmatic idiot. WHATEVER. i don't care. these people can feel free to think whatever they want. they just shouldn't be allowed to talk to me with impunity in bars or other public settings, because i get so flummoxed that i become completely inarticulate and it's rude to put me in that position. Really, what are you supposed to say when a deadsexy 22 year old homosexual tells you he "WORSHIPS THIS WRITER NAMED PEGGY NOONAN"? Personally, I say, "THAT'S GREAT; THIS MOVIE LADY NAMED LENI RIEFENSTAHL IS PRETTY AWESOME TOO." But whipping out the Leni gun is pretty cheap, even for me. It does not feel good.

Sex boycott now. (AP Keaton, if you're out there, i will make a one-time exception for you.)

By B

Grade: A

It’s pretty rare that I’m up before 11 o’clock in the morning. Actually, it’s pretty rare that I’m up before 2 in the afternoon. Or 3. This is both the joy and the curse of being a gentleman of leisure. Emily, on the other hand, is a high powered future editoridictator, which means that she has to punch the imaginary clock at 9 am sharp! Personally, if it were me, this would mean that I would crawl out of bed every morning at 8:45, and then slink into the office an hour late. Not Emily. She has her priorities in order. And her #1 priority is lounging around in her underpants, drinking tea, and watching THE TODAY SHOW for a good solid hour. For this, she wakes up before the sun has risen.

I am only aware of Emily’s dirty little secret because, lately, I have been pulling all-nighters in a (futile) attempt to get all my stuff in on time. There is nothing that perks me up more, when I am considering throwing in the towel and going to sleep, than hearing the cute little tinkle of the tea kettle-- followed quickly by KATIE COURIC’S trademark cackle. This means that Emily is up, and that I can join her in the kind of morning ritual that I miss out on when I actually go to sleep.

On one of these recent mornings, I was shocked to discover that Emily’s TODAY SHOW HABIT is not exactly casual. In fact, she seems to spend a large chunk of her free time speculating about the interpersonal dynamics of the characters, and fuming about their shortcomings. For the record: she “hates” Ann Curry, the icy newslady of indeterminate ethnicity, because of her tendency to pronounce the news with over-earnest sincerity. Emily also wonders why “Katie Couric is supposed to be so ‘cute.’” Because, according to Emily, Katie Couric has a mouth like “A PUCKERED ANUS.”

Most of Emily’s interest in the Today program seems to involve analyzing the internecine backstage politicking of the various characters. She has established an elaborate pecking order, in which everyone hates Katie Couric, but they think that MATT LAUER is stupid and growing uglier by the second, but they are all willing to gang up when it comes to Al Roker because even with a gastric bypass, he is still a FATTY AT HEART. It is more complicated than this, but that was about as far as I could follow the story until I started to get confused— though from what I gather, the central conflict is an ongoing battle between ANN AND KATIE, who are both, obviously, stone hearted gorgons.

Listening to Emily outline her TODAY SHOW theories, I was reminded of my lovely aunt, an award-winning hat maker who lives at the beach, and hasn’t missed an episode of ALL MY CHILDREN in thirty years. Do not get her talking about the TODAY show either. She loves it, and she, like Emily, is far more interested in the character dynamics than she is in the actual content of the show. The more I think about it, the more it seems like the TODAY SHOW (and I guess Good Morning America too, though I’ve never seen it) are the real forbears to REALITY TELEVISION. Because no one is watching for the News, or even the entertainment commentary. They are watching for the workplace intrigue. I am thinking that if the producers of the Today Show want to keep it current, they should dispense with all the interviews and stuff, have the anchors spend the show bickering, and vote someone off every episode. My first nomination: Matt Lauer. Because if housewives everywhere (not to mention my aunt) are going to be drooling over him, he should at least be cute. Am I right?

That aside, I think that Emily’s Today Show interest is really quite charming and cozy and I wish that I could be up early enough to share it with her every morning. Henry’s friend is staying on our couch tonight, and you should have heard Emily’s dismay when it occurred to her that the couch is in front of the television. Which means: NO TODAY SHOW TOMORROW. She was utterly distraught. The thought of doing her Dr. Hauschka’s routine without Katie & the gang to keep her company seemed unthinkable. Don’t tell Emily, because it is a surprise, but one of these days, we are going to get up really early, make signs on posterboard and go stand outside the studio window. KATIE, WE LOVE YOU, we will scream. Or maybe ANN CURRY even though it is a lie. Either way, we will not mention the puckered anus business. Maybe we will get on TV.

By emily

GRADE: D

Sigh. I am tempted to just do a VICE style one word review. Does anyone read VICE anymore, incidentally? Or has New School Alum/ Prince of Pretentious Japanese-girlfriended Hipsterdom Matt Eberhart finally driven a stake through its coke-damaged heart? Must remember to find out. Shout-out to Matt!

Where was I? Oh, yes, the one word that sums up this latest exercise in supposed mindfuckery from the pen of Charlie Kaufman, who, as everyone with the least bit of exposure to the media knows, also wrote the movie Henry lovingly calls “Cradaptation,” as well as “Being John Malkovitch,” which Henry has been too busy to nickname but would probably call something along the lines of “Peeing on John Malkovbitch.” Both totally sucked. Sorry, hipsters, but if you have trouble wrapping your brains around the Big Ideas in those movies, you must be having an even harder time with the People magazine crossword puzzle (21 down: Catherine _____- Jones). Also, Cradaptation and Peeing on… were made by this rich asshole who has had his penis in Sofia Coppola and is thus tainted with her unique brand of horsemouthed evil. Personal to Marc Jacobs: I am much more talented at (talent tba) than Sofia and also am actually pretty. Can you send me over a trunk of free amazing clothes, stat? Thanx! This movie (Eternal Sunshine) was not directed by Adam Spiegel Catalogue and consequently sucks a bit less than the previous two CK horrors. But it still sucks, and here’s why (finally!):

It is SAPPY. Treacly, sugarfrosted, icky-poo, Valentine’s Day-brand sap is oozing from every frame. Have you ever been in love? Yeah, me too, but did you frolic around making snow-angels and laughing at kooky parades and having deeeeeeep conversations in scenic settings every single day of the love? If so, you should sue the people behind E.S.o.t.S.M., because they stole your story. This movie is secretly a Meg Ryan cutesypootsyfest posing as High Culture, and it’s about as successful as Ms. Ryan and her jello lips have been at reinventing themselves in down’n’out Dramatic roles.

I think the reason why people have been running out in droves to see this movie is because it’s thinky and the title is in iambic pentameter and it’s not a remake of a ‘classic’ ‘70s TV show. But just because it’s the best thing going does not make it GOOD! It wins, yeah, but it’s an empty victory, along the lines of being the skinniest girl at fat camp or the cutest straight guy at an NYC publishing house. Please, Charlie Kaufman, stop writing movies that are expressly designed to allow stupid people to congratulate themselves for Getting It. Personal to Marc again: I’m sorry about what I said about Sofia. Please make with the clothes. I promise to wear them only to very high-profile events, like leaving the house. XOXOXO, Emily.

By B

Grade: D+

If you hadn’t already noticed that MTV is scraping the bottom of the barrel with its "venerable" reality program of THE REAL WORLD, the fact that the latest installment is set in San Diego should tip you off. San Diego? I didn’t even realize that was a city. I’d always just assumed it was one of many satellites that comprise the sprawling LOS ANGELES monolith. After watching my first episode of The Real World: SD, I’m still not convinced that I was wrong—but it’s pretty impossible to tell, because it’s not like they ever ever leave their fancy beach house anyway. The next story of the Real World is supposedly going to be in DC, and Rachel says the apartment is right above MAGGIE MOOS in Adams Morgan, which means, of course, sparklefatty ice cream alert! I have to say, as but one floating dandelion seed of the Washingtonian Diaspora, that it is actually pretty sad for Our Nation’s Capital to be lower on the list of Real World destinations than sunny, anonymous S.D.

I guess this is all beside the point, because the advent of more exciting REALITY PROGRAMMING has made The Real World totally irrelevant anyway. Who wants to watch a show where no one gets voted off? Personally, I’ve barely paid the slightest attention to THE REAL WORLD since they had it in New Orleans. That was the one featuring the lovably bland DANNY, a generic-yet-impossibly-dreamy stud with a blurryfaced military boyfriend. (Another selling point of the New Orleans series was David, the R&B crooner with the memorable catch phrase of "Woo Woo.") Anyway, as you would expect, the San Diego version of the show is basically unwatchable, with ONE FANCY EXCEPTION. This installment features a secret cutter. Oh yes. That’s right. Everyone’s favorite type of lady.

Her name is Frankie and she is your typical April Levine lookalike. She has like a tongue piercing-- or maybe it is her eyebrow—and, yes, she is punk, as secret cutters always are. I’m still not totally clear on what a punk is—does it involve pink eyeshadow? An affinity for soaring, Diane Warren-penned power ballads?—- but in the episode I watched, the other characters in the house mentioned Frankie’s Punk Identity about fifty times, so it must be true. (On the other hand, these people also seem confused as to what a "cheerleader type" is, because the girl whom they constantly identify as such looks more like a lesbian counselor at Gymnast Camp to me.)

The Secret Cutter episode was pretty hilarious, because how could it not be? Secret Cutters are some of the funniest people alive. It featured a special appearance by DR. DREW PINSKY--practicing physician, "addictionologist," and true blue Soldier of Camp-- who, at commercial breaks, warned the audience that "cutting is never appropriate."

The best part of the episode was definitely when Frankie’s secret cutting was discovered by the sweet Asian roommate. "I SAW HER COMING OUT OF HER ROOM. (pause) SHE HAD A KNIFE. (pause) AND THAT’S WHEN I KNEW IT WAS TRUE. IT WASN’T FANTASY. FRANKIE (pause) IS A SECRET CUTTER." At this grave pronouncement, I almost peed my pants, and then I tried to call Lady Colossal, who is USA’s #1 Secret Cutter fan, but of course she was off gallivanting and didn’t answer.

There is a certain satisfying aspect of circularity to having a Secret Cutter on what must be the thirteenth or fourteenth season of The Real World. After all, the program is partially responsible for Secret Cutters in the first place-- or at very least for their annoying insistence on ostentatious self-examination. Maybe (MAYBE) if there had never been The Real World, secret cutters would still exist, but at least they would surely do it in fucking secret, instead of self-consciously broadcasting their "problem" to the entire universe. ("OOPS! You can see my prodigious thigh-scars when I wear booty shorts? I’m so ashamed and embarassed!") Because of REAL WORLD, secret cutters and other foolish types have grown up thinking that it is socially acceptable to engage in retarded, confessional style pop psychology at all times. ESPECIALLY while talking loudly on their cell-phones. On the bus.

Like many of my generation, Frankie is fucked up because she has watched way too much REAL WORLD, and now believes that it is charming and important to engage in one’s navel gazing as loudly and self-seriously as possible. For people such as Frankie, there is no difference between one’s normal, insipid inner monologue and the kind of monologue that is played on an endless loop on MTV. What perfect symmetry FRANKIE represents. As if the Real World weren’t already enough of a parody of itself… now the characters have spent their whole lives preparing their resumes, only to halfassedly act out the storylines of REAL WORLDS past—while simultaneously upping the ante in a frantic, futile attempt to be memorable. Despite the best efforts of Frankie and her ilk to elevate the realness to a new level, these people fail to achieve even half the authenticity of their forbears. You have to be pretty fucking processed to be less real than TAMMY of Real World: Los Angeles—the one who got her jaw wired shut to lose weight and rapped "I’m a slave/ I’m a slave/I'm a slave to your lovin’/I can’t get enough of your kissing and your huggin!"

Like Frankie, today’s secret cutters understand that there is no secret that is not worth exposing to your roommates in a hysterical note left tacked to the refrigerator—preferably written in blood. Why cut in secret if there isn’t going to be a dramatic confession? What is the point if you can’t send your friends into paroxysms of concern? I blame the Real World for this disturbing social phenomenon. Fuck you, Frankie! You’ll find no sympathy in this household. We are totally making fun of your outfit.

By B
GRADE: A+

My journalistic ethics force me to disclose that I have been friends with the lovely Ms. Rabbit for years, and I think she is great. But guess what!? That has nothing to do with the fact that I am giving her Psychic Services an enthusiastic A+. If I thought she sucked, I would say so for sure. Lucky for everyone involved that she is the best-- I had a very satisfying reading just tonight!

Unlike many dippy psychics, with their incense and their runes and WICCAN NONSENSE, Jessica is refreshingly salty-- Like if ANN LANDERS (R.I.P.) had been blessed with a mystical sixth sense. And unlike most LADIES OF THE GODDESS STRIPE, Jessica steers clear of corky sandals and other forms of ugly flats. Jessica Rabbit knows that being precognitive is all about maintaining the MAGICAL GLAMOUR. It is only the highest heels for this sassy seer.

You should visit her website and enlist her services, because it is so worth it, and can your therapist tell the future? No way! My therapist wouldn’t even give me advice! The only bad thing about Jessica is that she is in San Francisco, which is way too far away. Still, that is not her fault. FOUR STARS ET CETERA.

(Note: It is at Ms. Rabbit's request that she be categorized as a COMESTIBLE. Yum yum!)

(2 yrs later addendum: I haven't talkd to Jessica in truly forever, but from perusing her website, it looks like she's hung out a shingle. If you're in the Bay Area, you should totally go visit.)

By emily

GRADE: B+

Judging from how many times B and I have pledged allegiance to our favorite Gold Dust Woman, you are probably thinking that this is a review of the Fleetwood Mac song that's so popular on Adult Contemporary Lite format radio. You know, the one where it seems that Stevie is singing “Didja ruh… I dinna nahh…” most of the time and the only comprehensible part is the chorus: “YOU SEE YOUR GYPSY . . . WILL REMAIN. AHHHHHHH!!!!” Well, just for the record, A++++ on that front. But actually, this is a review of Gypsy the classic Broadway musical.

I try really hard to pretend that I don’t like Broadway musicals, but actually I am a huge dork of them. If this makes me a mom from New Jersey, then so be it. Don’t get me wrong, I am not a cape person (if you need me to explain this term, please post a comment). I am very, very cool, as you would be able to tell immediately if B would just put up the About the Editors page already. I generally have excellent taste. But there’s something about watching someone famous standing 20 feet away from you and belting clever Sondheim lyrics such as:
“Have a dish
Have a fork
Have a fish
Have a pork!” that just gets me every time. Sometimes it even makes me cry!

Well, not the ‘Have an egg roll, Mr. Goldstone’ song. The sad songs. They say so much!
Also I have this weird disease where I remember the lyrics to every song I have ever heard in my entire life. This is good for trivia games, karaoke, and absolutely nothing else whatsoever. I know every single line to every single song from Gypsy because once, in 7th grade, this girl Laura played me a tape of it on the bus. Then she made me be Louise to her Baby June when we did duets. She is also responsible for me knowing all the lyrics to Chess (“Never stay too long in your bed . . . never lose your heart, use your head”) as well. Hmm, perhaps I am a dork.

I was really psyched to see Bernadette Peters in the role of Mama Rose because she is a goddess, a very brassy and down to earth variety of Fantasie Laydie. She is the star of one of my declared favorite movies, The Jerk. I love her coldy+squeaky yet perfectly modulated voice because it’s just so fucking cute. She is a genius. I’m horrible at sincere praise, which is why I tend to hate on things. But here’s my shot at it, vis a vis Bernadette: she is one of those rare celebrities who makes you doubt everything you’ve ever read about Capitalism = Bad because she actually deserves all the fancy shit she probably has. Really she deserves more, like a J. Lo level of fancy shit. If we were all equal, Bernadette would be getting screwed. Unlike, say, Amanda Peet, Bernadette Peters is different from you and me. She is a star.

And the show itself is the ultimate in Broadway musical. It defines the genre, it’s the industry standard: if musicals were candy bars, this one would be the Snickers. The songs are all familiar and famous. There’s probably a mule herder in the Andes humming “Everything’s Coming Up Roses” at this very moment. The whole experience left me exhilarated but sad that I don’t have any talents. But then again, neither did Gypsy Rose Lee, and she became so famous that now there’s a Broadway musical about her. You have to love an entertainment experience whose heartwarming moral is: if you had a crappy childhood, taking your clothes off can give you the attention you’ve always craved! True and profound. The only reason this does not get an A is the dork factor.

By normandy

GRADE: D

Model scouts scour the country looking in bus stations and Starbucks’ and playgrounds for our nation’s most svelte and be-cheekboned young ladies. After purchasing crops of ingénues from their parents said model scouts herd them on to busses bound for the big city. These busses travel from far and wide, sometimes days without stopping, to a quaint little block off of Tompkins square park. The ladies are deposited in front of 190 East 7th Street, their new home. (AND PRISON?)

Upon arrival the models are quickly ushered into their new rooms to protect them from the rival model scouts and also the poor. In the good old tradition of the lower east side they are packed in 8 people to an apartment. For protection from street toughs they must travel around the East Village in gaggles all hoop earringed and slouch booted. The models meet the fabulously wealthy Europeans and NYU students who also call 190 East 7th street home and romantic subplots ensue. The new neighbors tell the models “We live here because it looks exactly like an NYU dorm for grown ups, complete with elevator, private patio and art gallery. Even the furniture in the lobby is identical to furniture that graces the lobbies of NYU buildings such as the Health Center and the Business School.”

Since the lobby is lit 24 hours per day, art lovers and vagrants often press their noses against the windows at any hour of the day or night to look at the grainy photographs and color field paintings. When this happens, the Europeans show the models how to call the security guard. The NYU students, not to be outdone, invite the models over to barbeques on their spacious terraces. They all become friends and look forward to night after
night of stumbling home hijinx and hilarious sidewalk puking.

Those people who live near 190 East 7th street should go take a final look at its lobby, because mere months from now it will be the setting for a reality TV show called “Models, Europeans, and NYU Students Drinking and then Having Sex with Each Other” that will be broadcast to millions. The early morning exasperated looks from racoon eyed girls in their juicy couture (as they groggily move their birthday SUV's to the opposite side of the street for the sweepers) will lose their charm once thay are shared with the nation. Also, you will no longer be able to walk past because the street will be privately owned. And you will have gotten kicked out of your tiny apartment, so you won’t be in the neighborhood very much anyway.

By B

Grade: B-

I have always had a fondness for girls with bad reputations. The bigger, blonder, and trashier the better. My main problem with The OC is that the wild girls don’t seem wild enough. Where is the slathered on eye makeup, I would like to know? Where are the two inch roots and the ill-fitting PARASUCO jeans? The girls on this program are just a bunch of bland, run-of-the-mill Tveenagers, especially the incredibly boring girl played by Mischa Barton, who is, implausibly, supposed to be the bad one. Her TV name escapes me, but she is always OD’ing and so forth. Her hair is never messed up. This show sucks. It does not know that being a bad girl is all about being a weird looking slut with a low-level Ritalin problem. Now Rayanne Graf of My So-Called Life-- there was a little hooker I could get behind. She wore things like crop tops, Dazzy Dukes, and backwards baseball-caps, all topped off with kooky Cleopatra eyeliner. She was always sleeping with scuzzy older men and Angela’s boyfriend and that one time when she did OD didn’t she also try to sleep with her mom’s boyfriend or something and then Patty Chase came to the rescue? Something of that nature. Here is a girl who knows what being a slut is all about.

Being a slut is all about catching a spark and setting it off and then standing by and watching everything burn. It is about being so in control of your own out-of-controlness. It is all about making your roommates worry because it is two o’clock on a Sunday afternoon and you haven’t come home for the third night in a row, but fake-out because you are in your room, half asleep, listening to them gossip about you. They just think you’re not home because you slept in your shoes instead of leaving them by the door.

Being a slut is about taking whatever opportunity the world offers, and crossing your fingers. Unfortunately, sometimes the world offers scabies, or worse. I am not advocating crazy behavior here, and trust me, I’m certainly not advocating getting scabies. But I do think that the sluts of the world are doing a sacred duty. We are love soldiers. Being a slut is going into battle, armed with almost nothing, and fighting for a much higher purpose, knowing that injury is all around. It is being hard and vulnerable, taking off the armor only to go in for the sneaky stiletto thrust to the gut. The job of a slut is to vanquish. Because there are blue-eyed mercenaries from heartless kingdoms lurking everywhere. Sometimes you get the job done. Sometimes you lose.

The day after an impromptu orgy (which you may or may not have gotten paid for) a slut might feel slightly bummed out for being, well, a little slut. After all, there is something vaguely undignified about spending a night with two different sets of gay, shaved balls banging against your closed eyelids. Is this making your life more fun? Or just more smelly? The danger of being a slut is that you forget who the joke is really on, because most of the world believes that it is the slut who pays. Wrong of course-- but as soon as a slut buys into this conceit, the game is over. The danger is that you begin to believe the gossip. The other danger is forgetting which side you were on in the first place.

Being a slut is about taking whatever opportunity the world offers, and crossing your fingers. Unfortunately, sometimes the world offers scabies, or worse. I am not advocating crazy behavior here, and trust me, I’m certainly not advocating getting scabies. But I do think that the sluts of the world are doing a sacred duty. We are love soldiers. Being a slut is going into battle, armed with almost nothing, and fighting for a much higher purpose, knowing that injury is all around. It is being hard and vulnerable, taking off the armor only to go in for the sneaky stiletto thrust to the gut. The job of a slut is to vanquish. Because there are blue-eyed mercenaries from heartless kingdoms lurking everywhere. Sometimes you get the job done. Sometimes you lose.

The day after an impromptu orgy (which you may or may not have gotten paid for) a slut might feel slightly bummed out for being, well, a little slut. After all, there is something vaguely undignified about spending a night with two different sets of gay, shaved balls banging against your closed eyelids. Is this making your life more fun? Or just more smelly? The danger of being a slut is that you forget who the joke is really on, because most of the world believes that it is the slut who pays. Wrong of course-- but as soon as a slut buys into this conceit, the game is over. The danger is that you begin to believe the gossip. The other danger is forgetting which side you were on in the first place.

Here is what Mark Doty says about sluts in his poem Tiara:

“… Sometimes we wake not knowing

and gravity, what could he do,
what could any of us ever do
but ask for it?”

Being a slut is not always fun. It is never safe. A slut gives up a lot, not least of all reputation and peace of mind. But being a slut is a little bit like being a priest or a nun. If it calls you, you have to answer. It is your responsibility.

By emily

GRADE: F

As Sarah Silverman has already established, girls don’t poo. They do pee -- occasional perfume-scented tinkles -- but solid food matter that their bodies can’t transmute into shiny hair/glowy skin etc. is removed from their tummies by some divine agent (Jesus most likely) and spirited away to food heaven, where it remains, for ever and ever, world without end, amen.

Well, I would never want to contradict Ms. Silverman, and I would certainly never want to confess to pooping. Because, well, ew! But let’s face facts here: everybody poops. There’s even a Japanese children’s book with that exact title, so it must be the case. And maybe I’m neurotic and I need to get over this immediately, but I can’t ever quite bring myself to . . . make this theory manifest . . . in an office environment.

Why on earth don’t the architects in charge of designing spaces where people are supposed to spend big 8 or 9 hour chunks of their lives just go ahead and put in single-stall lavatories, already? Doesn’t it just make sense? At the very least they could play loud music or make the walls thin so that the sound of the water in the pipes is audible. The bathroom in my office, in addition to being eerily silent, is always, always populated. The ladies here all seem to be health-conscious types who drink a ton of water and whiz accordingly. I don’t want people to hear me poo, and I certainly don’t want to hear them poo either. We don’t know each other that well! How are you supposed to make cheery chitchat with someone when, a few minutes earlier, you heard them unleash a barrage of brown? Not to be vulgar or anything.

So far my solution to this problem has been simple: just don’t do it. I am fairly sure that this is unhealthy. As I left the office today, looking forward to the comforts of the private commode at the gym, I wondered: do I have a legitimate gripe here? Or am I just full of shit?